We are watched by Mrs Stiles. Her look says plainly: ''Here is the girl you sent for, to London. She is about good enough for you, I think.''
''You need not stay, Mrs Stiles,'' I say. And then, as she turns to go: ''But you will have been kind to Miss Smith, I know.'' I look again at Susan. ''You''ve heard, perhaps, that I am an orphan, Susan; like you. I came to Briar as a child—very young, and with no-one at all
to care for me. I cannot tell you all the ways in which Mrs Stiles has made me know what a mother''s love is, since that time . . .''
I say this, smiling. The tormenting of my uncle''s housekeeper is too routine an occupation, however, to hold me. It is Susan I want; and when Mrs Stiles has twitched and coloured and left us, I draw her to me, to lead her to the fire. She walks. She sits. She is warm and quick. I touch her arm. It is as slender as Agnes''s, but hard. I can smell beer upon her breath. She speaks. Her voice is not at all how I have dreamed it, but light and pert; though she tries to make it sweeter. She tells me of her journey, of the train from London— when she says the word, London, she seems conscious of the sound; I suppose she is not in the habit of naming it, of considering it a place of destination or desire. It is a wond